


Here to Take Care of You

by Arika_the_Togepi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I wanted one of these but I've read all the others so I decided to write one, M/M, Scotland Yard (briefly towards the end), Sick Fic, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arika_the_Togepi/pseuds/Arika_the_Togepi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A classic Sherlock gets sick from ignoring his body and John has some hidden feelings. We all know where this is going, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get to Bed!

John groaned as he opened the door to the flat. Mrs. Hudson had warned him about the noises she had heard coming from the upstairs floor when she saw him first enter, and John didn't want to confront his flatmate, who was doing who knew what. The first thing that the blonde ex army doctor noticed was the smell, which, instead of slamming into him with all of its horrible odour, slowly slinked into his nose, only to become gradually worse. His apprehension of seeing what Sherlock was up to was almost as bad as the smell itself, and in that moment John wanted to leave for a few hours to give the flat some time to air out.

He was apprehended, however, when a noise came from the kitchen, “Achoo!” It was loud enough to give John a small fright. He jumped, and followed the noise into the kitchen as the perpetrator continued, in a stuffed up voice, “John, do come here,” with a short series of muffled coughing after.

“What do you need?” John asked, covering his face with his sleeve. The source of the smell came from a particularly old looking mould culture that seemed to be being grown on – was that, no, it couldn't be – a human toe? Or toes, anyway, as there was more than one lined up in a row on a glass plate, each with its own disgustingly coloured fungus coming out of it. 

“Hand me my phone,” came the terse reply. Sherlock appeared to be immune to the horrible smell, given that he was bent over a specimen and studying it carefully with a magnifying glass. Naturally, the phone was not even a metre away from the detective, being only on the other side of the kitchen table. There were other various things going on around Sherlock, such as a few boiling bottles of variously coloured liquids and books opened to seemingly random pages strewn about, but this was a very normal Sherlock habit to which John had become accustomed. 

“What on earth are you doing?” John questioned, while handing him the phone. “It reeks in here.”

“Mind over matter, if only you'd recognise that your brain must interpret the smell to be bad you would be able to block out the signals being sent that make this particular fungus smell any different to a bottle of vanilla.” came the arrogant reply. The sound of texting entered the room as John rolled his eyes. The detective continued, “I am checking for mycelia growing patterns on skin tissue that has been rendered in different states such as extreme heat or cold.”

The way he said it almost made John believe that what his flatmate was doing was not all that uncommon. The doctor sighed exasperatedly and turned to make himself a cup of tea, pouring out that which Sherlock had created earlier (though the liquid inside looked suspiciously not-tea like). He was becoming used to the smell and turned, leaning with his back against the counter as he waited for his water to boil. The phone buzzed, causing a mini earthquake on the table and John watched as Sherlock answered it without looking up from the severed toes (where did he get the toes, John wondered, before realising that he probably really didn't want to know). 

The ex army soldier contemplated the other man in the room. Flatmate. Best friend. Work partner. Out-of-bounds crush. Yes, crush. John Watson has a crush on the abrasive, hard to live with, stubborn and all around amazing man that is Sherlock Holmes, and not only that but he's come to terms with the way he feels. People in John's life have told him to accept his not-so-heterosexuality, given that they think he is opposed to such a notion and that it's why he tells people that he doesn't fancy Sherlock in any way, but the truth was that he had accepted it a long time ago. 

Rather, on that first case the two had worked together John distinctly remembered Sherlock's words, 'I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for-' 

“John.” Sherlock's voice snapped John out of his thoughts, as the blonde focused on the Sherlock in front of him rather than the Sherlock in his memories. He noticed one large difference between the two as the Sherlock in front of him picked a tissue from an unnoticed nearby tissue box and used it to wipe at his nose. John didn't comment on the movement.

“Yes? What now?”

“I suggest if you have continued wanting tea that you pour the water now, otherwise it will soon require being reheated.” Sherlock's eyes flicked up to look at John for the first time since John had entered the flat. To avoid the eyes looking for answers over exactly what it was John was thinking about so deeply, John turned around to find that the kettle had boiled while he wasn't paying attention. Sherlock didn't say anything else, going back to his work. 

So, basically, while John knew that he cared for Sherlock and wanted to be in a relationship with him very much, he would never act on it because the man himself had told John that he didn't want to be in that kind of relationship, whether he meant romantic or sexual for John the two came in a package. While trying to make Sherlock more comfortable, John ignored his own feelings knowing that nothing would come of them and not wanting to jeopardise their platonic and friendly relationship that he depended on so strongly.

“Achoo!” John looked to Sherlock who had now sneezed twice in a not so long period of time. The curly haired man almost never sneezed, considering that it was typically an involuntary action that was unnecessary and had few benefits, not to mention possibly humiliating. This raised alarm in John's mind as he recognised the signs of Sherlock feeling ill. 

“Are you becoming sick?” John asked.

“Of course not,” the detective started. “I could not possibly be- achoo!”

Now becoming worried, John walked to Sherlock's position on the other side of the table and managed to wrangle his friend away from his science equipment long enough to place a hand on his forehead and check for a high temperature. The heat coming off of Sherlock's forehead was alarming, so John told him to sit down at the table and not to move from where he was. Sherlock complained, as was expected, but allowed John to fetch his medical kit from underneath the kitchen sink to take out his thermometer and a small flashlight.

Walking back over to Sherlock, the doctor shined a light in both his eyes, making a mental note of normal pupil dilation: no concussion, migraines, or other head trauma symptoms, then, which he hadn't expected in the first place given his pre-diagnosis of cold or flu, but with Sherlock it was never too bad to check. Next he told Sherlock to put the thermometer under his tongue, which was again made into a fight, but John managed to shove the device under his tongue when he opened his mouth to complain. John was only thankful that Sherlock didn't spit it back out at that point. 

At the beep of the small white instrument, John read the number displayed on its screen. “You've a temperature of 39 degrees! You must be burning up!”

“I hardly know what you're talking about,” Sherlock muttered, trying to stand up. John pushed him back down in the chair with relative ease.

“You have a temperature of 39 degrees celsius, I can't imagine how you have the energy to stand up let alone work over your science projects, but I don't care. You're going to take the medicine I give you and then you're going to get into bed and go to sleep and stay there until I bring you food, which you will eat.” Sherlock made a whiny noise in the back of his throat to tell his flatmate how much he disapproved of that plan. “It's not your fault that you've gotten sick, Sherlock, but you still need to take care of yourself; otherwise you won't be able to go traipsing around London to catch the bad guy, now will you?”

“I took ibuprofen at 10 o' clock. The fever reducer in it-”

“Probably wore off about four or so hours ago. You need to take another dose and probably a decongestant to get rid of that ghastly sound its making in your chest. You'll need bed rest, as I've already said, and to drink lots of water as you'll dehydrate through sweating. While you can't eat a large amount of food you need to put some calories into your body, as, knowing you, you probably haven't eaten anything all day.” 

Sherlock said nothing to what John told him, showing perhaps how sick he truly was. John lead Sherlock to his bedroom and made him lie down. “I'm not sick John! So what if I've a little fever, there are things to do tests on!” 

“I won't be having it Sherlock,” John told him in his I'm-taking-no-shit military voice. Then he gathered up the medicines he'd recommended and a glass of water for him to take them with. Sherlock took them more easily than expected, that is to say John almost had to force them down his throat and then cover his mouth to make the grown child take the damn pills.

John closed the door behind him as he exited Sherlock's room, having left the water and hoping that Sherlock might drink some if he became thirsty. Putting the medicine away, John decided to clean up after his flatmate (which he tried not to do too often as it encouraged bad behaviour), even if only just this once. The toes were still sitting on the kitchen table and John didn't know what to do with them; normally he dealt with these experiments by putting them in Sherlock's bedroom, but he couldn't very well do that now as they could be detrimental to Sherlock's health, whether because he'd work on them or because of their most likely high toxicity. 

Instead, he decided to simply put each of the toes in a singly clean tupperware box, then setting it on a clear part of the counter. At least the smell would soon fade, as John opened the window and sprayed air fresher he had bought after the incident with the pumpkins. 

Hopefully Sherlock would go to sleep with the sleeping pill that John managed to also give him; he needed to learn that he couldn't just push his body to the end of its energy levels and then expect it to bounce back after one decent meal and a normal night's sleep, especially not while he was ill. John fell into his chair with a satisfied plop and turned on the television. At least he wouldn't have to hear about how he wasted so much of his free time and thinking power on such frivolous topics as his favourite football team.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke to hear a loud coughing coming from the general direction of the hallway. He had fallen asleep in his chair, which he immediately regretted as he stood up and there was a loud pop from the back of his neck. He groaned and rubbed a hand down his face. 

The coughing fit began again and John looked down towards the noise to see a slightly open door leading into Sherlock's bedroom. That was odd. Sherlock never left his door open and John certainly hadn't left it open, lest he anger Sherlock while he was ill. The sick man himself must have opened it. 

Walking over to the door, John noticed that the coughing still hadn't stopped and he started feeling a bit apprehensive. How sick was Sherlock exactly? He had better taken the medicine that the doctor had given him, or else John wouldn't feel at all bad for the other man. The blonde pushed the door open. 

Or at least, he tried to.

There was a semi heavy object on the other side of the door, which groaned as a door was rammed into it. Sherlock must have fallen over while trying to get to the door, for what reason John didn't know, perhaps use the toilet? Whatever the reason, John closed the door a little again so as not to hit Sherlock, and then squeezed past the gap to find the black haired man slumped against the wall on the other side, head in his hands and knees to his chest.

“What's wrong, Sherlock?” he asked. 

“What's wrong?” rasped Sherlock, looking up to John, who could see that the man was abnormally pale (compared even to his normal pallor) with a running red nose. “Oh you know, just my lungs trying to force their way out of my chest.” He sneered.

John rolled his eyes, “I told you to stay in bed. If you'd only start taking care of yourself better then this wouldn't have-”

“It's all Mycroft's fault!” the detective shouted at John, despite their close proximity. John flinched at the sudden loud noise. 

“How on Earth is this your brother's fault?” 

Sherlock sniffled, “I don't know yet. I just know that it's his fault. Must have infected me with some kind of illness to keep me from being able to solve a case so that I would be so bored once I'm again healthy that I'd take whatever he'd offer me.”

“I highly doubt that Sherlock,” said John, raising an eyebrow. “I think Mycroft has better things to do with his time and that he'd not want you to be ill.” Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. “Besides, all you have is the common cold, maybe the flu but I highly doubt it, and that's perfectly easy to pick up on you're own. Here, let me take your temperature.”

Sherlock snapped his head back and smacked it right into the wall behind him, but he didn't seem to care. “No. You're in cahoots with him aren't you? You're working for Mycroft – trying to get me to do what he wants. I'm sure of it. Maybe you got me sick. He knows I trust you; you're always trying to get me to be nicer to him, how could I be so stupid?!”

John was momentarily very confused at the sudden change in demeanour and had a sinking feeling in his gut due to the offence and pain at having Sherlock accuse him of working against him (though Sherlock also mentioned that he trusted John, and that made him feel a little bit better, and he also said John was working against him only with his brother, which was admittedly not all that bad). However, he knew not to let it get to him because the detective was sick and almost certainly had a fever causing delirious paranoia; he didn't actually think anything that he said or at least hardly knew what he was saying (at least, John refused to believe that he did). 

“Come off it Sherlock,” John tried to reason with him, “you must know I'd never do anything to try and hurt you. I just want to check your temperature so I know what medicine you need to take. Just let me-” He tried to give Sherlock the thermometer but the other man knocked it out of his hand before it got anywhere near his mouth. 

John's nostrils flared and he felt impatience growing inside him. Normally he was very good at dealing with unhelpful patients, even screaming and crying children that Sherlock was easily compared to, but this was different. This was Sherlock Holmes, not a five year old, and that made it much more difficult for him to deal with, a grown man acting horrible while he was trying to help him. 

Knowing that there was no way he'd get the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth, John instead forced the back of his hand onto the black haired man's forehead and found the skin to be a high temperature, enough to assume that he did indeed have a fever. 

“Sherlock you need to get back into bed, drink some water, and I'll get you some more medicine for you to take to make you feel more like yourself.”

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about,” snarled Sherlock, who had been writhing and distressed the entire time John had needed to sit nearly on top of him to get a hold of his forehead. “I'm completely myself, all I need is for you to leave me and then I'll get better because you're the one who's made me sick!” And with that Sherlock shoved John off him and across the floor so that his back was slammed into the side of the bed frame. 

John felt like growling at the sharp pain but did nothing. It. Isn't. Sherlock's. Fault. It really wasn't. He had to keep repeating it to himself. But it still made him angry. Instead of trying to force Sherlock up onto the bed, the doctor looked at the bedside table and saw that he had drank most of the water and had taken the medicine given to him earlier. Rather than trying to tell Sherlock to do something, John was just going to put all the elements together and hope his best friend used them correctly. 

Grabbing the cup on his way out, John tried his best not to hit Sherlock with the door and poured some new water into the glass. He also picked out more medicine from his first aid kit and wet a piece of cloth with cold water for Sherlock to wrap around the back of his neck. 

“Look Sherlock,” John told him. “I'm not trying to trick you into doing anything. But here are the facts: you're sick, and I've put the medicine you need on the bedside table. You'll want to take that with water as dry swallowing pills is bad for you, and also because in your sickened state you need fluids. I've also brought a cool cloth for the back of your neck. I'm sure you're aware that the major artery back there is working at full speed to prevent your infection from spreading and thus is a large reason for the heat you must be feeling. Cooling it down will make you feel better. Sleeping will help you recover sooner and you'll feel much better sleeping on the bed instead of the hard floor. I'm going to leave all these things here and then leave myself.”

“Good.” muttered Sherlock. “I don't want you here.” There was a pang in John's heart. He knew the other man didn't mean it, but it hurt to hear him say it all the same. 

Then the detective muttered something quietly, and John asked, “What was that?”

Sherlock sneered and rolled his eyes but spoke more loudly, “I said that I've been trying to get you to leave forever. All you seem to do is cause me pain that I can't fix, because I don't know how to. You say and act like you can cure it but you're wrong. You can't. Or won't. Whatever. Your presence hurts me and I just want you gone.”

At that John's mind was sent reeling. What? That seemed more coherent than everything else Sherlock had said all night, but... He couldn't mean that? John wasn't hurting him was he? Of course not. And if he was, John would definitely fix it. Right?

“Leave already!” Sherlock commanded, followed by a coughing fit, and John finally got up to leave. Shutting the door once more on his way out, John ignored any pain he felt in his chest until he was changed for bed and lying down to prepare for sleep. 

John had no idea what Sherlock had been talking about. Of course, Sherlock was speaking from the perspective of a paranoid and delirious mind who thought he had been turned ill purposefully and John, who lived with him and was a doctor, seemed a logical choice to blame. 

But what about the pain Sherlock didn't know how to fix? Sherlock knew how to take fever reducer and pain medication and decongestants and all the usual things for an upper respiratory infection as he was inflicted with presently. He might not do it for some reason that John would never understand, but he knew how to. Also, John's presence while he was sick shouldn't make him feel any worse the he did already. 

Ugh! None of it made any sense. Unless, and John didn't want to think about this possibility, but it would make sense if he wasn't talking about his sickness. If John was causing him some other kind of pain, perhaps emotional, that Sherlock hadn't ever had to face before because, as the detective had told him before, John was his first and only friend (human friend, anyway, discounting Redbeard), it could be John's fault that Sherlock was in some kind of pain. 

These thoughts plagued John all night as he tried to think of what his friend could possibly have meant. Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of nothing but Sherlock's sick face repeating the same phrase over and over, “I don't want you here.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning John woke with a migraine. He hadn't slept well at all and he really didn't want to leave his bed, but he rose to the occasion to literally rise out of bed. Thanking that he wasn't needed in at the hospital that day, he pulled on some clothes and left his room for the kitchen. Turning on the kettle for his tea, John checked on Sherlock, quietly opening his door to see that the other man was sleeping soundlessly. The sides of his mouth turned up a little at seeing Sherlock had taken the medicine given to him earlier.

Hearing the kettle whistle, John poured himself a cup of tea and buttered some toast to eat as he sat down in his chair and turned on the telly. As much as John liked the quiet peacefulness of having no Sherlock nag at him for wasting away his brain energy or not having to go on high speed chases through London on foot, he'd much rather have Sherlock awake and well than sick in bed. Hopefully his flatmate would feel better soon. 

After about half the day had gone by (absolutely none of which John spent worrying and thinking about Sherlock, absolutely none of it), there was a stirring from the detective's room and John went to go look in on him. Eyes half shut, hair a mess and skin flushed, John offered to help him to his destination of the restroom. Saying nothing, Sherlock allowed himself to be helped, which didn't put John's (non-existent) worries at ease. 

The blonde warmed up some soup and took out some more medicine for Sherlock, who he could hear was turning on the bath. Not too long later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom still flushed and sickly looking, but with a little more colour on his cheeks and more energy in his walk. Though able to walk from the bathroom to the living room all on his own, John made him sit on the sofa to eat some food and drink some water. Sherlock didn't disagree, but he didn't seem to like the idea either. 

“Are you feeling any better?” John asked, cleaning a thermometer that he had just taken from Sherlock's mouth. 

“Yes,” he rasped, saying nothing else. The coughing fit John had heard the night before had happened practically all night, making his throat scratchy and his voice hoarse. The thermometer now read a safe 37 degrees celsius. He put it back into his medical tool kit. 

John hummed, “I think you're fever broke last night. You're getting better and you're fever is going down. The coughing and congestion might last for about two weeks after today. I still recommend bed rest for a few more days. Certainly no traipsing around London.”

Sherlock huffed. He had actually eaten the soup that John gave him (most of it, anyway) and took everything John said without arguing against it. This perplexed John as he wondered why he would take all of this so easily. Last night Sherlock had been delirious which was certainly the reason for his contradictions to literally everything John said but agreeing to everything he said wasn't normal either. And he was eating. 

John washed Sherlock's dishes and came back into the living room to see him quietly reading a book. Strange. Still, John wasn't going to push his luck and have a temper tantrum throwing Sherlock, so he didn't ask about it. Instead John sat in his chair and picked up his computer to answer some questions he'd left piling up on the newest blog post of their adventures (which at this point was a little old). There were no remarks on his hunt-and-peck typing skills or whining at John turning the TV on later. Very strange. 

Later in the day just before what John would call dinner time there came a knock at the door. It wasn't at the front door but rather the one to their own flat, which meant Mrs. Hudson had let the person up to their rooms. John got up from his chair to answer the door and when he saw who it was, he said, “No.” and immediately slammed it. Lestrade had come for a house call which meant that Sherlock had invited him over which meant the way he'd been acting was all to get on John's good side so that he'd be allowed to work on a case. “That goes for you to, Sherlock,” John told him pointedly. “No. No cases.”

The man in questions looked at him with eyebrows raised and a small frown, “Who was at the door?” and John shook his head in exasperation and refused to answer. The door opened on its own accord as Lestrade, slightly offended at John's actions, allowed himself in. 

“So, what was that all about?” Lestrade questioned, standing in front of the now closed door awkwardly. John turned to glare at him as he nodded his head toward Sherlock who was still in his sleep clothes with matted hair and slightly wild eyes. 

“This one is too sick for whatever it is you want him to do. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave.” Lestrade looked at the sickly Sherlock and sighed. 

“I was unaware he had been put under house arrest for...”

“A cold.”

“Yes, a cold. My apologies Doctor Watson. Sherlock, you told me it was fine to come over!” Lestrade once visited while the detective was doing a very fragile experiment and he'd ruined everything. Because of this, Lestrade had to ask if it was an alright time for him to visit before doing so. 

John huffed, “Well of course he wouldn't tell you that he's sick because he still wants to go out and make himself even sicker!” The blonde turned to his flat mate. “But I'm not going to let you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh come off it John I'm perfectly healthy.” He stood up and immediately regretted it as all the blood rushed from his head and he fell back over to a sitting position of the sofa. “That was only because I have been sitting for far longer than necessary.”

“Perfectly healthy?” John asked. “Perfectly healthy? Were you perfectly healthy this morning when you couldn't make your way to the bathroom? Or last night when you were delirious with no idea what you were saying?”

Sherlock stared at John for a brief moment before saying, “I wasn't delirious. I knew perfectly well what was going on.” That hurt. A lot. John's heart sped up and there was a dropping feeling in his stomach. No. He was lying to get the ex soldier to let him outside, he wasn't actually aware of what he was saying the night before. 

“Like when you said that Mycroft had gotten you sick on purpose out of malicious intent?” John questioned, not wanting to bring up any of the other things that had been said. 

“I-” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to remember if he had said that, John expected. “I was joking?” It had been a statement but the way that Sherlock said it with a lilt at the end turned it more into a question. John turned to the Detective Inspector still standing in front of the door during their spat. 

“Surely you're able to see that he is in no condition to leave the house at this moment. Though it doesn't really matter because he isn't leaving. I don't want to know what the case is or any of the details because it doesn't matter.” Lestrade agreed and Sherlock was about to interrupt when Lestrade shook his head. He agreed with John, which was good because it meant to matter how much Sherlock went behind his back to solve the case, Lestrade wouldn't help him with it. Good. 

“Sorry John,” Lestrade told him. “Sherlock, get well soon.” And with that he left. 

“Don't.” John warned Sherlock, who had opened his mouth to no doubt make up on all the missed opportunities earlier to criticise the doctor. There was brief pause at John went into the kitchen to begin making food for dinner, nothing difficult just a simply pasta and cheese meal. “How much do you actually remember from last night?” he asked Sherlock from inside the kitchen. 

Nothing. John wondered at first if the other man simply hadn't heard him, but then came a, “Very little,” from the living room. The disembodied voice continued, “I remember you giving me water and telling me to take the medicine. And I think I shoved you, causing that bruise on the back of your neck.”

“Nothing else?” John asked. 

“Apparently I said something ridiculous about Mycroft. Anything else I need to know?” Sherlock's voice was like steel, and John swallowed a lump that was beginning to form in the back of his throat. 

“No, just curious.” So Sherlock didn't remember the things he'd said to John. All the better really, since they were absolutely not true. Nope. They didn't need to be addressed because they held no facts behind them. He brought out food for Sherlock to eat which he took one bite of and then refused to touch. John groaned, the niceties were over. Sherlock picked up his violin and played horrendously. 

At least he was getting better. Now John could go back to hiding his own feelings for the other man and worrying about his own emotional health. Surely repressing all of this emotion wasn't good for him. But, and this was hard to realise with the broken notes being played right next to his ear, Sherlock was good for him, and if their relationship could only be platonic (which was the obvious case) then so be it. 

Later on in the night, John dozed lightly off on his chair and Sherlock began playing a much nicer melody. The doctor was very bad at telling when Sherlock was lying, especially if he was worried about something such as the black haired man's health. It had no matter however. Sherlock hadn't meant to tell John what he had and it would be all the better if John would simply forget that anything out of place had been spoken. Hopefully the shorter man would chalk it up to complete falsehood rather than a loose tongue spilling secrets. Also hopefully John would allow Sherlock out of the house soon. It was going to get dull staying inside all day as he was made to lie on the sofa or his bed watching TV or retreating to his mind palace when there were better things to do. Well, it'd be dull for him, terribly annoying and hard to deal with for John. 

For now, he'd let John sleep. And Sherlock was still a little bit sick, so he'd probably need to get to bed soon too. Still, watching John's sleeping face was mesmerising, and he would continue doing it for just a little while longer before heading off to his room.


End file.
